


Bloom\Ink

by AvaRosier



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-11
Updated: 2015-05-11
Packaged: 2018-03-19 09:10:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3604518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvaRosier/pseuds/AvaRosier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> Flowers, like tattoos, carried a hidden meaning. A second language, if you will.</i>
</p><p>Or: the one where Clarke Griffin owns a tattoo studio next to Lexa's flower shop, and it turns out the two aren't so disparate after all.</p><p>Note: Completed now, updated stuff is in Chapter two.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_“She had a flower tattoo on her wrist; "What does that mean?" he asked her. "Absolutely nothing," she said, "it's just a flower.”_  
― C. JoyBell C.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

It was the same thing every time: a simple bouquet of white chrysanthemums paired with moss for contrast. The chrysanthemums had been his mother’s favorite; Marcus had told her the first time he came into the shop before heading over to the Arcadia Cemetery two blocks away. Lexa had nodded her understanding. There were, after all, two languages for flowers: the ones the flowers provide, and the ones people create for them.

 Lexa hadn’t been able to help herself—she had an encyclopaedic knowledge of flowers and their scientific names as well as their meanings.  Marcus had told her which flower his mother had loved, and Lexa had chosen moss to accompany the shock of white buds. “Do you know why moss is the emblem of maternal love?” She had asked as she prepared the bouquet for him, wet fingers nimble as they sorted and trimmed the stems.

“No, why?” Some people could walk into _Bucket of Thistle_ and be abrupt, with little interest in understanding the meaning of the arrangements they were choosing. Marcus, however, had seemed genuinely fascinated. So she had elaborated.

“Because, like a mother’s love, it is constant even in the harsh of winter.” To his credit, Marcus hadn’t done more than blink and nod at that. Okay, Lexa is aware she’s not the sunniest of personalities, but she is the way she is and she’s long since accepted that and its attendant consequences.

* * *

 

 

 **Chrysanthemums (white):** _remembrance; devotion_.

 **Moss:** _maternal love_.

 

* * *

 

 

Marcus’ visage is pleasant today, he’s smiling easily and complimenting the arrangements she’d put out in the window that morning. “That’s quite the change from the usual— celebrating the new season?” He’s not even wearing a jacket; the weather had finally warmed up last week, temperatures reaching a welcome 72 degrees yesterday.

Lexa eyes the set-up from the counter. It’d taken her _weeks_ to plan out and put the orders in for the more special items that weren’t frequently available in your run-of-the-mill store. She’d taken a lot of inspiration from the Alnwick Poison Gardens, which she had visited during her trip to England last September. Bright yellow Laburnum flower-buds were suspended in a cascade from a dark metal archway, delicate  _aquilegia coerulea_  seemed to drift midair while surrounded by two varieties of cacti.

 “Not exactly. One of the most famous florists who often writes for  _Fleur de Vivre_ , Susan Princip, she’s coming to check the store out and possibly offer me a job arranging a spread for their May issue.”  Marcus’ eyebrows raise and drop while he gives an impressed whistle.

“That would be terrific exposure. If she has any sense in her, she’ll give it to you in a flash.” Lexa respects the man because, though he may be a politician nowadays, he always made an effort to go visit his mother’s grave once a month. She may not be the friendliest of people, but she does make an effort to talk to her patrons.

“I can hope,” she demurs, graciously accepting the compliment as she finishes tying off the bouquet before handing it to him.

“Thank you again, Lexa.” He tells her, giving her a polite nod before heading out the door and to the right. Lexa can be honest and admit that she appreciates the company even if she treats it as a replacement for close bonds.

(She also appreciates the repeat business.)

A burst of laughter floats in through the wide open door and Lexa could only sigh and close her eyes as if the act would give her fortitude. Susan Princip would be here in less than an hour and it was too late to somehow change who her next-door-neighbors were. She squares her shoulders and marches outside, making a sharp about-face to the left before stalking ten feet and making another abrupt about-face through the open doors of  _The Gryff_  tattoo studio.

The laughter dies down immediately and two heads, one dark and one light, rise to face her.

“Lexa!” The blonde exclaims, standing up straight and while Clarke Griffin may have meant to smile at her, it comes out more as a grimace.

“Clarke,” she states and, after a moment’s thought, “and Octavia.”

The brunette presses her lips together tightly. “Hello to you, too,  _Lexa_.”

Octavia is being insincere but Lexa decides to address the reason she was here in the first place instead. “I doubt you are aware of this, but I am considered the best florist in the city. Last year I won the top prize at the annual Home and Garden competition.” People often call her arrogant; Lexa thinks she simply states facts.

“Yes, I remember that.” Clarke nods, looking to mollify. “I read about it in the papers and there was that segment on the news.”

That’s a surprise, and it causes Lexa to stumble over her next words, flushing with either pleasure or embarrassment. “Well, then I’m sure you can understand when I explain that I may be given the opportunity for national exposure and it would be nice if your shop and its garish patrons wouldn’t detract from Susan Princip’s visit, which will happen fifty-three minutes from now.”  She checks her wristwatch for precision.

Clarke’s voice is low and level when she addresses her again. “You don’t need to worry about my store, Lexa, or its patrons. Whether you get this opportunity or not will be entirely due to your abilities.”

Lexa reddens further at the underlying mockery in her tone and realizes that she  _had_  insulted Clarke and perhaps she didn’t truly mean to. In truth, this interview had her stressed out and nervous, and that was no excuse for taking it out on other people.  Especially Cl…her  _neighbor_.

“I’m sorry. That was unnecessarily rude." She apologizes as gracefully as she is able. "There have been occasions where your customers, or your friends, have been loud and boisterous, and I don’t know how Susan would react.” (It should be noted that Lexa isn't the most humble of apologizers.)

Clarke angles her head again and steps out from around the counter. It’s then that Lexa realizes that the black-and-white striped top Clarke is wearing is short enough to show a hint of skin above the line of her white jeans. She swallows thickly and makes sure her eyes remain resolutely on Clarke’s face.

“Apology accepted. And it should be a quiet day—it’s too nice to keep the door closed but we won’t be talking or laughing too loudly until later in the day.”

“Thank you,” Lexa tells her gratefully. She turns to leave the shop.

“Good luck with your interview,” Clarke calls after her and Lexa can only give her a tight smile over her shoulder before she’s on the sidewalk.

What on earth had  _that_  been about?

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Clarke watches her go, Lexa still stiff-backed and with that wild mane of curls bouncing against her back, and bites her lip in consternation. Behind her, she can hear Octavia slamming a drawer shut and muttering darkly to herself.

“Jeez, someone needs to remove the stick up her—“

“Octavia!” She admonishes, turning to give her employee a warning glare. It hurts, for a moment, to turn her eyes from the brightness outside to the relatively dim interior. Octavia holds her palms out, shrugging defensively.

“I’m just _saying_ , Clarke. That woman does not play well with others. She’s practically soulless.”

That label, 'soulless' doesn't sit well with Clarke. She finds herself trying to explain on Lexa's behalf. “She’s just prickly and exacting. And nobody who loves flowers the way she does could be soulless.” Clarke mutters as she finishes wiping down her equipment. Octavia pauses in the middle of erasing something in the appointment book and gives her a narrow look that clearly says she sees through Clarke’s bullshit.

“Oh my god, you  _like_  her. You actually want to get with that.” She couldn't have sounded more incredulous if she tried. Octavia isn’t a tattoo artist, you see, but she sometimes works the front desk for extra money on the side of her primary job over at the gym down the street. She is also a competitive MMA fighter and Clarke seems to be stuck with her. Not that she’s complaining. Much.

“I may objectively find her attractive, but that’s beside the point here, Octavia. I just don’t think Lexa asks for much more than we be professional businesswomen who respect each other’s space. She’s clearly nervous about this meeting and wants it to go well.” Well, that wasn't entirely a lie.

“Mm hmm.”

 She doesn't see if the woman Lexa had been waiting for arrives on time because she's in the back working on her first customer of the day. Monroe had first come to  _The Gryff_  two weeks ago to meet with Clarke and plan out her second tattoo, a sort of memorial for making it through her first tour alive. She is fairly quiet, lying on her belly with her shirt off and the straps of her sports bra pushed down so Clarke can press the needle and inject bright red ink into the dermis over her right shoulder blade. 

"Why Captain Marvel?" She asks the stoic young woman. Monroe furrows her brows and hisses through her teeth before replying. 

"I used to read her comics when I was growing up. She was kind of my inspiration to join the Army. I know it just changed, but the rule used to be that women couldn't be in combat roles. Not that it made a difference in the sandbox. Everywhere was the front, basically." Clarke hums and wipes away the excess ink, giving Monroe a chance to get a breather before she continued. This was probably one of the best parts of the job for Clarke- second only to the joy of creating permanent works of art on human canvas- listening to people's stories. The meaning vested in the marks they chose for themselves. Monroe's voice is becoming thick with emotion.

"There was an ambush one day: an IED went off and we were pinned on two sides by enemy fire. We were just a supply convoy, really. I lost one of my best friends, who had been with me since Basic. Sterling. I carried another guy out there who was too wounded to walk. He had to be twice my size but I did it. And the government can't award me a medal because as far as they were concerned, I wasn't there." There's an undercurrent of bitterness to Monroe's words, to the jut of her chin. Clarke doesn't begrudge her that. 

"I'm sorry."

"Anyways. It was like I understood Carol even more afterwards and maybe I just want to carry her around with me, as a reminder that I survived. That I fought. That I won't stop pushing for a place doing what I love."

Later, while Monroe smiles at the sight of her new tattoo in the mirror, Clarke looks around the worn reddish-white brick walls that made up her studio with an indescribable emotion. It wasn't exactly a profession she had seen herself going into when she was fifteen. Certainly not one her parents would have expected from her. But their lives had changed so much one year later, and her mother had seen how resolute Clarke had been about training and then opening her own business, and had put aside most of her misgivings and supported her daughter. It had been like a balm on the open wound in her soul. 

She loves what she does and she loves the little niche she's carved out in the world. 

"It's perfect." Monroe tells her, all smiles. Clarke grins and beckons her back over. "Come here, I need to tape it up and walk you through aftercare- don't give me that look, I'm legally obligated!"

 

Later, after she's locked the shop up, Clarke heads upstairs to the second floor, which she's turned into a studio apartment. She goes through the motions, stretching to release the tension of the day as she kicks off her ankle boots and dumps some food into Luna's bowl and sets it down on the floor next to the kitchen counter. The cat's nowhere to be found.   _Probably off telling Usagi how to save the world_ , Clarke chortles to herself. The joke never gets old.

The sun is shining dark gold through the westward-facing windows, casting most of the apartment into shadows. She hums softly as she cranks the fridge open and tries to decide what she's going to make for dinner.  She loves food, but she hates having to go to the effort every day to make a simple meal. At least she could waste a few hours watching tv shows on Netflix.

A thought niggles at the back of her mind and Clarke tries to quash it for all of a moment before she gives in and closes the door. Padding softly, with unnecessary stealth, she reaches the large window near the north-western corner and squints as she peers out of it. There's a narrow alleyway in between their buildings, but the window placements are identical and thus Clarke can see right into the apartment that Lexa occupies above her flower shop.

She feels like a stalker as it is, spying on her neighbor like this. But there's just something about Lexa that draws her attention; that makes her want to see what she's like when she isn't keeping up the facade around other people. There! Clarke straightens up and jumps behind the brick wall, bending over so she can peek around the edge of the window. The sun's just dipped beneath the line of buildings opposite them, casting them into enough darkness that she can see right inside. Lexa has changed her clothing- she now sports an ancient pair of baggy high-waisted jeans that look a decade or two removed from current fashions and a loose white tee. Her hair is haphazardly tied back and she's slid a pair of big, ugly glasses onto her nose. 

Clarke can't help the giggle that threatens to bubble out of her throat. 

Lexa is gorgeous like this, all the same. She's bustling around her kitchen, sorting through- _what else?-_ a pile of stems. Her apartment is full of flowers, always. Several vases and several pots decorate the open space. Clarke likes watching her arrange the different types of flowers: cutting them and keeping them watered, extending their lives longer than Clarke had ever been capable of. Watching Lexa lean in and breathe deeply, closing her eyes as she inhaled the sweet scents, on the other hand...

Clarke wonders what comes to her mind when she did this. 

Realizing what she was doing, Clarke shakes her head and steps away from the window. She’s such a fucking perv. And she can’t exactly blame it on the dry spell she’s been under lately ever since her and Lydia had broken up. She doesn't close the blinders because maybe she wants Lexa to see what she gets up to when she's home alone, too. After all, she’s not actually in the habit of walking around her place half-naked.

She would be lying if she said she wasn't interested in Lexa in a more-than-friends way. Octavia had been right on the mark when she'd come to that realization earlier. But Clarke wasn't sure if Lexa would ever look at her in that way.  They were neighbors and capable businesswomen, maybe it wouldn't be worth rocking the boat over a sudden infatuation. All the same, Clarke finds herself thinking as she re-opens the fridge and pulls out an onion and a jalapeno, figuring something Mexican was on the menu for the night. 

Maybe tomorrow she would go next door and buy some flowers herself.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“ _Yes, I can be ready by then. Yes. Yes, and thank you again for this opportunity. Goodbye_.” Lexa ends the call and sets her phone down on the counter next to the stack of yellow tulips she had been processing. Nothing today can derail the vicious sense of satisfaction she feels at that moment.

“Sounds like you got the job. Congratulations.” Lincoln pipes up from his perch behind the register, where he is currently doing little more than sketching pictures of random people he’s seen lately. Lexa turns to face the wall of muscle with his back to her, giving him a baleful glare. She shouldn’t complain about Lincoln—he does his job and helps the customers, but most importantly he doesn’t question her when she tells him to do things a certain way. She appreciates a well-trained male. She paces over to the sketchpad and sees that Lincoln is working on the confident smirk of a very familiar brunette who sometimes parks her motorcycle out front. She mentally sighs.

“Yes, that was Susan’s assistant, giving me the details. You do realize that the woman is at least fifteen years your senior?” She points out, indicating the biker chick Lincoln seems to be stuck on.  He shrugs and gives her an inscrutable look that tells her he's going to continue to pine for the woman regardless. Lexa had been persuaded to hire him after the Valentine’s Day fiasco when she had lost her patience with a patron. " _I’m sorry, we are out of red roses. Would you like something with more thought and originality to fool your spouse into forgetting what a worthless partner you are for a single night_?" Her kindness towards customers had a limit, it seemed, and so it had made sense to hire someone who would not be constantly insulted by the unimaginative choices people tended to go for.

A soft but persistent  _meow_  draws her attention to the small gray body carefully pacing around the bundles of flowers until she could make the leap onto the counter in front of Lincoln and Lexa. Lincoln puts down his pencil so he can scratch the cat behind its ears. It purrs loudly with satisfaction. “Look who’s come back around again. Must really like the smell of flowers.”

Lexa frowns at the cat, wondering if she should allow it to continue to wander into her store as it wished. She never makes a mess and seems content to just spend time there. If asked, Lexa would insist she was neither a cat nor a dog person. She only had the company of her pet octopus, Ursula, in her apartment upstairs. Octupi were clever by design and Ursula was a demanding creature who required constant stimulation else she might break out of her tank. Cats were a mystery to her.

“Let it stay—it’ll probably leave soon anyways. It’s getting late.”

“Speaking of, it’s about time I head out. See you on Wednesday?” Lincoln begins to gather up his things and slide them back into his messenger bag. Lexa gives him a nod of dismissal, still staring at the cat.

“Yes, have a good night.” He exits with a jaunty wave, leaving Lexa alone in the shop for twenty minutes before another customer enters, just shy of closing time.  When she catches sight of who it is, she swallows a scoff. She doesn’t much like Bellamy Blake, co-owner of  _A Novel Idea,_ the bookstore down the street. He looks about as pleased as she is to be in the shop. He’s got his arms crossed as he frowns over the various bunches before him.

“What do you want?”

“Flowers.” He states succinctly.

“How novel.” She replies tartly.

“Don’t listen to Bellamy, he doesn’t know how to grovel very well.” Finn’s melodious voice pipes up from behind Bellamy as he strolls through the door and comes to a stop before the counter. Him, Lexa accords a small smile, which Finn meets with a wink. He takes another bite of his apple and reaches over to let the cat lick at his fingers. “Ah, Luna comes to visit you, too?” 

“You know her?”

“Yes, she’s Clarke’s cat. From next door?” Of course this creature belongs to Clarke Griffin.  _Of course_.

“Yes, I know Clarke.” Lexa says rather evenly, she thinks.

“Luna always finds some way to sneak into the bookstore in the afternoons. I think she just likes to nap in the sunny spots. Probably makes us more profit since people love small bookstores that have cats. Makes us more quaint.” Lexa demurs and busies herself with her tulips while Finn cranes his neck to look at his friend.

“You alright back there, Bellamy?” Finn calls out, knowing Bellamy was absolutely lost among the sea of flowers.

“Fuck off.” The man grumbles, toying with a yellow rose. Finn snorts and turns back to Lexa.

“He’s trying to pick out flowers for _Maya_.” Finn explains for her benefit. She gives him a shake of her head, that hardly explained anything since she hadn't a clue who Maya was.

“His girlfriend?” The statement elicits simultaneous denials from Finn and Bellamy.

“He wishes.” “She’s just a friend.”

“They like to have long talks about art history as foreplay.” Finn wriggles his eyebrows.

“I swear to god, Collins—“ Lexa decides to step in so Bellamy would leave her store sooner.

“Has she ever expressed a preference for a certain type of flower?”

“No.”  _Then what use are you_ , Lexa doesn't say.

“Very well. What type of art does she enjoy? Favorite color? Does she go for a classic aesthetic or does she like more ornate romanticism?” Lexa fires the questions off rapidly. Bellamy straightens his spine and answers her.

“She likes the Mannerists, odd vintage things she finds at antique stores, and her favorite color is yellow.” If she hadn't been accustomed to thinking of love as a pathetic thing, Lexa would have been impressed.

As it is, she steps from behind the counter and sweeps around her shop, pulling a single white lily into her hand next to a bunch of daisies and some summer pheasant’s eye stems, followed by two red carnations and two pink camellias. Then she focuses on adding yellows to the palette: coreopsis, snapdragons, and California poppies. To surround the bunch, she carefully selects some leather leaf and green variegated pittosporum.

“Like Giuseppe Arcimboldo’s  _Le Printemps_ ” Lexa says, referencing the famous painting. She trims the ends for Maya's sake and wraps the bouquet in clear plastic. Fortunately, the meanings the individual flowers convey do not clash outright with one other, for the most part. And maybe Lexa derives dark amusement from the incorporation of snapdragons ( _presumptuousness_ ).

Bellamy’s mouth drifts open with shock. It’s Finn who lets out a whistle. “Damn, Bellamy. Give Maya that and I think  _she’ll_  propose marriage to you.”

“How much?” Bellamy manages to grind out.

“Forty-five.”

“ _Dollars_?" His voice goes high-pitched. "That’s fuc-“

“That’s  _perfect_  for such an  _unique_  bouquet that is inspired by one of her  _favorite works of art_.” Finn reminds his coworker with a meaningful look. Lexa knows exactly what her work is worth. Bellamy sighs but reaches for his wallet and his credit card all the same.

They both leave soon after, for which Lexa is grateful. But it leaves her with the problem of the cat. _Clarke's_ cat. Lexa knows that cats come and go as they please, and that they had once been worshiped as near gods by the ancient Egyptians. But maybe she should seize upon this opportunity to get herself in Clarke's good graces and return Luna to her, because they _were_ neighbors and Clarke  _had_  tried to be nice.  But this leaves Lexa wondering what kind of flowers Clarke likes.

Apparently Clarke had come to the shop the other day, when it was just Lincoln there, to buy some flowers. (Lexa refused to admit how disappointed she had been that Clarke had shown up the one time she hadn’t been in that day.) She had pressed Lincoln on what Clarke had picked out, undeniably curious and willing to endure her employee’s realization that Clarke was a person of interest to his boss.

 _Purple dahlias_. She had asked for purple dahlias and the paler hued daphnes. But as separate bouquets. Which had confused Lexa deeply. The dahlias conferred dignity; the daphnes said ‘I would not have you otherwise’. Lexa couldn’t help it—it was in her personality to overanalyse everything. Did Clarke know the meaning of the flowers she had chosen? Was this somehow a message? The daphnes, in particular, had her wondering at one in the morning whether Clarke meant those to go to someone she was romantically interested in.

She hated it. She hated how obsessive the desire for love made her. But she also adored how it felt, the clench in her chest, the rush of feel-good hormones. Thinking of Clarke made her flowers look brighter, smell sweeter. She really shouldn’t close herself off from love for the rest of her life. Deep down, Lexa fears that all the beauty would leech out of the world and she’d lose her one passion. Maybe it was time to begin living again.

And perhaps she ought to bring Clarke some flowers, as well, in apology and thanks for keeping things nice and quiet while Susan was there.  And perhaps she could choose something that said far more than she was prepared to out loud.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Clarke's last customer of the day is Monty Green, in to finish the self-portrait tattoo on his left shoulder blade. (" _When I'm fifty, I'll get myself done again for the right side_.") Clarke really likes Monty; he's earnest, yet mischievous and unassuming. It’s because of customers like Monty that tattooing never feels like work. She never looks down on any tattoo request (well, maybe that’s a lie), because each request means something to her customers. Her and Monty bounce off each other about everything under the sun, but after commiserating on the wonders of whiskey, they lapse into a friendly silence. Which is when Lexa stalks into the shop, carrying none other than Clarke's cat. 

" _Lexa_? _Luna_?" Clarke asks, not expecting this sight at all. The hum of her needle dies down.

"Who's that?" Monty twists around underneath her hands and squints at the front door. "Oh, hey, aren't you the flower chick?"

Lexa pauses uncertainly over the threshold, obviously not having expected someone to be in there with Clarke. She scratches at Luna's neck, and Clarke notices the cat doesn't seem eager to get away. She can't help the silly grin that splits her face at the sight of her neighbor. Lexa drags her eyes away from Clarke's so she can look down at Monty and nod.

"Yes, I own _Bucket of Thistle_. I didn't mean to interrupt; I just wanted to return Luna before she got into trouble."

Clarke carefully rubs the itch on her nose, not wanting to get ink smudges on her face from her purple gloves. "Thanks- she pretty much has free reign of the neighborhood. I hope she didn't attack your flowers-"

"She didn't." Lexa interjects quickly. "She was actually very well behaved."

"Oh, good." Clarke sighs with relief, and then they lapse into an awkward silence. She remembers her customer, who is currently staring up at her with a knowing grin.  _Dammit_. "I'm nearly done with Monty's tattoo, if you wanna sit down and watch. Then we can talk. If you want."

She glances down and sees Monty mouth ' _nailed it_ '. If it wouldn't have been too obvious, Clarke would have punched him on the arm. Lexa takes a few steps further into the workspace and sits down on one of the chairs behind Clarke. "Oh, wow. The likeness is amazing." She says as she catches sight of Clarke's work. 

Clarke preens. She's worked hard to be versatile and skilled in her field, but getting that kind of validation from the people whose opinions she values means more than anything. Sure, her mom thinks she's amazing, but Abby's her mother...that's kind of a given. Clarke refocuses on the palette of skin in front of her, returning the needle to the curve of jaw she had been working on.  Even as electrifyingly aware as she is of Lexa's presence behind her, Clarke manages to finish her job and before long, Monty is grinning at himself in the mirror as he checks out the reddened skin on his back. "Perfect. You're the best, Clarke."

"Did you have any doubt?" She shoots back, readying the sterilized gauze to cover the tattoo. 

"Never."

Monty pays and heads out, leaving her alone with Lexa, at last. She looks effortlessly lovely, like usual. Clarke is aware that she's not very dressed up today- a pair of skinny jeans and a black tank top covered with a ripped and loose white crop tank. Her hair hasn't been washed in two days, leaving it wavy. "I just have to do some cleaning, if you don't mind waiting a few minutes longer." 

Lexa is still holding Luna and she nods. "I brought you some flowers, as well." It's then that Clarke notices the cluster of purple sticking out of Lexa's bag. 

"Oh, you didn't have to-"

"Yes, I did." She insists, an intense look in her eyes. "I was rather rude to you the other day, and I wished to thank you for your understanding. I got the job arranging for the magazine."

"Congrats!" She's genuinely glad. Lexa accepts the compliment with a nod.

"Thank you. These are purple heather. I wasn't sure what kind of flowers you liked, so I thought I'd take a chance."

 

* * *

 

 

 **Heather (purple)** :  _admiration, loneliness_.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"They're lovely. Thanks." She doesn’t admit out loud that she’ll look up what they mean the second she’s back in her apartment. "I'll be sure to put them in a vase with some water upstairs."

“Actually, I also wanted to discuss tattoos.” Lexa blurts out. Clarke eyes the unmarked flesh she can see. Lexa doesn't strike her as a person who has tattoos or who is even interested in getting tattoos. But she can't deny how much the idea of being the one to permanently mark Lexa intrigues her.

“Oh?”

Lexa nods, sending a few curly strands of hair over her shoulder. “I’ve been thinking about getting one, and since you’re rather talented—“

“Thanks,” Clarke interjects dryly. Lexa gives her a look.

“I meant that as a compliment, and you know it. Anyways, I wondered if we could discuss the design possibilities.”

“Sure. What were you thinking of getting?” Clarke finishes wiping down her chair and sterilizing her equipment. 

“Flowers.” Lexa states simply, frowning a bit in consternation. At what, Clarke isn't sure. But she decides to take advantage of the opportunity this presents her.

"Well, that's a fairly broad category; maybe we can grab some dinner and eat it upstairs in my place while we discuss specifics. If you're still unsure, I have these body paints I can use to give you an idea of what the tattoo would look like."  The thing is, this is something Clarke would do with her girlfriends or boyfriends- an intimate act where she would paint their bared bodies and it frequently led to a bout of messy sex. She's sure Lexa doesn't understand the sheer implications behind the offer, not that she expects anything since they're barely more than strangers and-

"Sure. That sounds perfect. I could go get the food- I'm friends with the proprietor of  _Geda's_." Clarke has been in the restaurant a few times and the owner, Indra, seems incredibly intimidating. Then she realizes what Lexa is agreeing to. Feeling the faint sense of panic welling up inside her, Clarke forces a smile. 

"Awesome. I can grab some wine and get the paints ready. See you back here in forty-five minutes?"

"That should work." Lexa stands up and begins to head for the front door.

"Lexa?"

"Hm?"

"You can let Luna go. She'll find her way upstairs before long."

Lexa looks down at the animal in her arms, startled to realize she was still carrying the cat. "Oh." She bends over and lets Luna leap down from her arms. She then takes the bunch of heather out of her bag and sets it on the counter.  "Forty-five minutes."

Clarke can't help blurting it out. "It's a date."

Lexa doesn't seem to disagree with the label, at any rate. But Clarke's face is burning as she watches Lexa's lips tug upward a fraction before she exits the shop.

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

The first time Lexa had met Clarke, it had been shortly after  _The Gryff_  had opened in the thick, muggy heat of August. Lexa had gone over to introduce herself, in spite of her misgivings about having a tattoo parlor next to her upscale shop. She’d noticed right off the bat, of course, how bright and forward Clarke was. She’d been Windex-ing the glass counter that was situated against the wall, tongue sticking out from in between her lips as she scrubbed and Lexa had been struck dumb.

Of course, that’d been when Clarke noticed her presence. “Oh, hi! We’re booked for the morning, but if you want to make an appointment…”

“I’m not here for a tattoo.” She’d said rather brusquely.

Clarke had looked so adorably disappointed, brows furrowed. “Oh.”

And Lexa would always distinctly remember how irritated she was with herself, because she didn’t believe in things like ‘love at first sight’. The last thing she wanted was to be moved by another woman like this. And this Clarke had looked so appealing, Lexa wanted none of it. Her heart was still scabbed over after Costia had left her.

She hadn’t grown up with much, and so to have lost the one person who had shown her she was deserving of love and affection…it’d been easier to shut herself off from the hurt. She finds women attractive, beds them. But she hadn’t felt that familiar, disconcerting flutter of deeper interest until Clarke.

“Here.” Lexa had all but shoved the small bouquet of flowers at Clarke. She’d looked perplexed, hair pushed back under a red bandana, tantalizing hints of an intricate and colourful tattoo visible on her upper biceps and shoulder underneath her tank top.

“Daisies? Oh, are you the owner of the flower shop next door? I’m Clarke.” She’d just stuck her hand right out there. And Lexa couldn’t bring herself to be that rude. She’d shook it in return.

“I know. And yes, I’m Lexa Heidlin.” She had answered her, trying her best to hold her tongue further. But Lexa had never been one to hold back, not where her expertise was concerned.

“They’re not daisies, by the way. They’re starwort. See how they have only five petals, but look like they have ten? That’s because each pair of petals are connected down the center. It’s characteristic to the genus  _Stellaria_. It’s very important to know the difference, or else you might confuse their meaning.”

She’d been a little breathless after that spiel. Her mouth had opened and closed as she regretted being so obvious in her nerdiness. But Clarke had given her a slow, amused smile.

“Is it? What do they mean, then?” The upwards lilt of her voice could be taken as a flirtation. Lexa had ignored it.

“Daisies convey innocence. Starwort says ‘welcome’.”

Clarke had ducked her head down and breathed in deeply before raising her eyes to Lexa’s own in a way that felt momentous. “Well, Lexa, I feel very welcome.”

 

* * *

 

 

 _A tattoo? What the fuck, what the fuck have you done, Lexa? Talk about a premature commitment_. Lexa scolds herself as she locks her shop up and hurries up the street towards  _Geda’s_.  She doesn’t have a tattoo. She’s a tattoo virgin. And yet she had just expressed a desire to have her skin stabbed thousands of times by a tiny needle to have her regret emblazoned forever on her flesh.  _What the fuck_?

It hadn’t even been in her plan to tell Clarke she wanted a tattoo, it’d just come spilling out. And of course the only thing she could think to have etched onto her skin for the rest of her life was flowers. Lexa closes her eyes and groans. Hopefully she can figure out an unique rendition of her idea so she doesn’t seem completely pedestrian compared to the rest of Clarke’s customers.

Then it hits her that this is a date, a date involving dinner and wine and body paints. Which begs the question: where on her body would she want a tattoo, even a fake one? The thought stops her cold on the sidewalk, nearly crashing into a few patrons entering the restaurant. She ignores the dirty looks they shoot her way. God, she wants this. She’s missed this excitement, the way it speeds the blood up and makes her feel light.

But is she even ready?

Calling Clarke and cancelling would be even worse, so Lexa bucks up and enters the restaurant, heading straight for the bar. Krit nods at her as she heads around the mahogany counter and into the kitchen itself. It’s not hard to find Indra, she only has to see in which direction the cooks are scurrying and walk in the opposite. Indra is carefully plating steak on a bed of celeriac mash when Lexa steps in front of her.

“What do you want?” Indra is never one to dance around the point.

“I’d like to remind you I sent Nigella Lawson to this restaurant in January when she stopped in my store for flowers. You owe me for making you famous.” Indra pauses in the middle of pouring a red wine reduction over the steak, arching a single eyebrow. Lexa sighs. “ _More_  famous.”

“Again, what do you want?” Indra asks, slightly more conciliatory.

“A dinner for two, to go now.” She juts her chin out challengingly, daring the older woman to say no. Indra wipes the plate down and sets it on the pass. “Service!” She barks and a waitress quickly materializes out of nowhere to take the plate out to its destination. Indra then turns and scrutinizes Lexa with narrowed, suspicious eyes.

“Fine. I hope you realize you’re trading in my debt at a loss.”  _It’s really not_ , Lexa wants to say.

“The duck breast, if you would please.” Lexa requests politely. She’s seen Clarke eating pork tacos from the food truck that parks around the corner, so she knows meat isn’t an issue. Indra gives her a curt nod and goes back to ordering her sous chefs around. Lexa leaves her to it, taking a seat at the bar.

She no sooner perches on the barstool than Krit is setting a shotglass of vodka in front of her. “You look like you could use one,” he reasons, going back to drying the whiskey glasses that had just come out of the dishwasher. She knows Clarke had said she’d get some wine to go with their dinner, but Lexa decides maybe a shot of liquid courage will calm her racing mind. She knocks the shot back, relishing the burn as it slides down her throat. To Krit, she gives a grateful nod.

 

* * *

 

 

 Clarke returns to her apartment with two bottles of wine (because she could not decide between the Australian Merlot and the Californian Pinot Grigio) before Lexa arrives with the takeout bag of food.  She takes a minute to google the meaning of heather and all at once, the weight of possibility settles upon her.  She puts the flowers Lexa had gotten her in a vase and pours the wine into glasses. Then she rushes around picking up the place before unearthing her set of body paints from the massive dresser full of art supplies and sets it on one of her work tables before she hears the knock on the door.

“Hey,” she breathes out as she swings it open.

“Hello,” Lexa says, smiling awkwardly. “I brought food.”

“Right. Yes. Just follow me, I’ve got barstools at my preparation counter because I’m too lazy to bother to find a proper dining room table.” She babbles as she leads Lexa through her apartment towards the open-plan kitchen. “I hope you don’t mind red wine. I got white, too, if you’d rather—“

“Red is fine.” Okay. Well. Clarke feels like she’s usually smoother than this when it comes to making a move, but the night is still young. She helps Lexa slide the food out of the containers onto the plates she had supplied. “Oh this smells so good.”

“It’s duck breast with a wild mushroom and butternut squash pearl barley, accompanied by broccoli and topped with a baby onion sauce.” Damn, this was definitely better than the usual crap she threw together most days of the week.

“I don’t have the faintest idea what baby onions are but it sounds orgasmic.” Clarke chuckles, only to quiet when she notices how Lexa’s cheeks pink at her word choice.  They sit cattycorner to each other and dig into their food. Clarke finds herself mimicking the two-handed approach Lexa takes with her knife and fork. It’s very European and Clarke doesn’t to seem like such a peasant in comparison.

“How did you end up choosing tattoo artist as a career path?”

Clarke swallows before she replies. “I kind of grew up around it, in a way. My parents did the proper thing and went to college and became a doctor and an engineer, but they still liked to ride motorcycles and go to pool bars. Tattoos were big with their friends and I was always artistically inclined. It just seemed to speak to me.” She shrugs.

“What about you? Why flowers?”

In most of their interactions, Clarke has seen Lexa frequently police her expression; always guarded. But now, even as she looks down at her food, she’s got a small smile growing on her face. “I was rather dark and high-strung as a child, when I came to live with my uncles. Nyko, he liked to garden. Mostly herbs, though. But eventually I got bored enough to start reading through all the books he had on flowers. I liked how they had a secret language.”

Clarke’s chest constricts. That’s it. She’s doomed. The wine’s good, though, and she manages to down two glasses before the meal is finished. “What does your shop name mean, by the way? Since flowers have their own meaning, that is.” She asks Lexa while she licks the last bit of sauce off the tines of her fork. Lexa smiles faintly, as if Clarke had figured out a private joke.

“Thistles mean misanthropy.”

“Well, that certainly seems fitting.” Clarke tells her dryly, raising an eyebrow. Lexa sobers, which has her backpedaling. “Not that it’s a bad thing.”

Silence falls between them. Clarke takes in the cleaned plates and the nearly empty glasses of wine.  “How about we move into my studio area and talk about flower tattoos?”

“Sounds good.” Clarke takes their plates and cutlery and puts them in the sink. God, she wishes her apartment came with a dishwasher, but alas she was forced to either be lazy or actually get her hands dirty. She empties the red wine bottle into both their glasses and grabs the bottle of white before leading Lexa over to the space next to her living room furniture she’s used to set up her easels and art supplies. There’s a work table, a rough thing with paint crusted onto it, albeit now covered by a dark purple towel. It’s just wide enough for her to straddle someone’s back. She knows from previous experience.

“So. What kind of flowers were you thinking of for your tat?”

Lexa seems reticent at first. Finally, she opens her mouth, thumb toying nervously with the corner of the work table. “I can’t actually decide. I like so many flowers I keep wasting time on the meanings and what every possible combination could convey.”

“Well, this isn’t something you have to know right now. If you could trust me, I could freehand something and see if you like it.” She offers, racking her brain for images she’s seen. Lexa’s eyes bore into her own, but she nods.

“That will do, I think.” Lexa takes a deep drink of her wine.

Clarke’s breath catches in her throat a bit, when Lexa turns to set her wineglass down and gracefully pulls her top over her head and doesn’t hesitate before reaching behind her back to unsnap her bra and place it on top of her discarded shirt. She meets Clarke’s eyes directly, without guile, and asks: “Just lie on top of the towel?”

“Yes.” Clarke squeaks.

She tries not to gawk at Lexa as she climbs on top of the table and instead mimics Lexa in gulping down the rest of her wine. She fills both their glasses with some of the white in case they’re thirsty later.  Her paint tubes are set up and Clarke picks up the black first, hesitating only when she eyes several of Lexa’s curls that are still across her back.

Reaching out, almost hpynotized, Clarke brushes her fingertips across the top of Lexa’s back, sliding the hair out of the way. She notices the minute shiver and reminds herself that she needs to be going slow, not jumping Lexa’s bones. Unbidden, a sudden fantasy flashes across her mind: Lexa, being laid down upon a bed of flower petals. Naked.

 _Focus, Griffin_.

Lexa’s got her head turned where it rests upon her hands, watching her. That’s encouragement enough for Clarke to squeeze some paint onto her fingers and place the pointer down near Lexa’s hip before making a series of sweeping motions. It’s not that hard to lose herself in her work, in the vision she’s got inside her head.

She doesn’t hurry, but it seems like minutes before she’s done. Or undone, as the case may be. Clarke stands back and surveys her masterpiece, panting softly and holding her messy hands aloft. She’d used the black for the outline, to make stalks and leaves and the edges of petals. Different kinds of petals. Then she’d taken bright colors: yellows, pinks, oranges, and used them inside the petals, not filling the outlines and leaving some skin visible.

“There. That’s just one idea. How’s that for a start?”

Lexa gingerly pushes up off the table, breasts jiggling a little as she hops down, holding her hair over her shoulder to keep it off the drying paint. Clarke has a full-length mirror down in the corner by her bed. She follows Lexa at a sedate pace that doesn’t belie how nervous she is to know whether Lexa likes the paint tattoo.

She stands there with her front exposed to Clarke, chin twisted around so she can look at her reflection in the mirror. “It’s beautiful,” Lexa says at last, voice filled with wonder. “I don’t know if I want this as a tattoo, but your work, Clarke…it’s amazing.”

Clarke ducks her face down, grinning like an idiot. “You’re welcome, and I’m sure I can come up with other tattoo designs. As many as you want.”

That gets a smirk out of Lexa and a playful arch of her eyebrow that does things to Clarke’s nethers. “As many as I want? I would imagine that could get costly when it comes to replenishing your materials. And time-consuming, as well.”

 _Oh, yes. You’ve definitely got it, Griffin_! Clarke practically crows to herself.  _Lexa is so flirting with you now_. She shrugs off Lexa’s concern. “What can I say, I’m all about customer satisfaction.”

Lexa looks back into the mirror, pondering something. “It seems a shame to ruin the artwork by washing it off or covering it up.” And then she’s moving closer, coming to stand inches away from Clarke. She’s caught in the tractor beam, captivated by the hue of her irises, more green than she’d realized. Lexa is darting her gaze from Clarke’s eyes down to her lips and back up. “Well, I guess you’re going to have to stay here for a while to properly appreciate it.”

“A sound plan.”

Clarke’s mind goes blank when she registers Lexa drawing closer and closer until…The press of lips against hers is a shock to her system. Clarke inhales sharply.  Her paint-caked hands rise to curl against Lexa’s ribcage, feeling the heat emanating from her, the expansion of her chest from breathing.  She kisses her back, of course.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Lexa can’t stop brushing her fingers over her lips, can’t forget the way they had tingled when Clarke had kissed her. She’s utterly distracted, which is why it’s a blessing that Lincoln isn’t there when a customer comes in. The man is about her age, with a beard, dark eyes, and he’s dressed in a nice button-down and pressed slacks. He looks like one of the professionals who have offices in the square.

“Hey,” he says simply, nodding rather agitatedly as he surveys the options. She smiles with understanding. Clearly Clarke’s tongue has turned her into a pod person.

“Who are you shopping for?”

“A…a friend. Except we’re kind of becoming more. I thought I’d get something special for his office so it doesn’t look so plain.”

“That’s an excellent option. Perhaps something more long-lasting, like a potted plant?”

“Yeah, that would work. I just don’t have a clue what to get him.”

That’s where she comes in. “If you’ll just tell me about him, I’ll see what I can do.”

In Victorian times, suitors used to gift ladies with carefully selected bunches of flowers. The ladies would then rush back home to consult their flower dictionary so they could decode the meaning like a secret message. This man, who introduces himself to her as Nathan Miller, has eyes that crinkle at the corners and straight white teeth that show when he smiles, all while describing his paramour.  Lexa is fairly sure this is the same Monty she had met the other night.

“I think I may have just the thing. Wait a second.” Lexa heads into the back and returns shortly with a potted plant. Miller’s eyes widen when he gets a good look at it. “What the hell is that?”

“ _Zingiber spectabile_.” Lexa says proudly. “Or Beehive ginger, as it’s more commonly called. It has antimicrobial properties, but I think your Monty will appreciate how unique it looks.”  The plant had red horn-like leaves that became orange, then yellow towards the top and resembled a beehive in appearance.

Miller’s shock melts into an approving nod. “It’s perfect. How much?”

“Well, I’m glad you asked me that, Mr. Miller…”

 

Lexa is always busy this time of the year with the onset of spring. Mostly because human beings seemed biologically primed to become horny when Mother Nature became fecund.  When she’d taken the trash out earlier, she’d spotted none other than Finn Collins and Octavia Blake making out heavily against the brick wall behind the tattoo studio. Unfortunately, brisk business kept her from being able to head next door to talk to Clarke.

Honestly, Lexa was kind of glad.

She’d done something incredibly spontaneous last night, with a woman she worked next to rather than a stranger. And it was clear from her emotions that she wanted something more than sex with Clarke. Which was terrifying. So, having time today to process the possibilities was a blessing.

Lexa sighs as she juggles the armful of Hyacinths so she can get her key in the door. Soon as she walks through it and gets the flowers deposited on her worktable, she realizes something is amiss in the apartment. A small meow sounds from behind her and Lexa turns around, then groans. Luna is sitting there next to Ursula’s tank, looking unperturbed by the fact that the octopus had escaped the tank and was dragging itself across the hardwood floor towards her.

“You have got to be kidding me!” Lexa huffs in exasperation, scooping Ursula up before she can reach the cat. Ursula was incredibly bright and a skilled escape artist. If Lexa didn’t give her enough intellectual stimulation in her tank, she’d find a way to escape. “If this is your way of telling me you like pussy, I am not amused.”

Ursula safely occupied with a puzzle, Lexa scoops Luna up with the intention of returning her to Clarke.  She knocks on the door outside the secondary entrance and only has to wait ten seconds before Clarke is swinging it open. “Hey.”

“Hey, you found Luna again!”

“Yes, she somehow found her way into my apartment.”

“Yeah,” Clarke winces. “Sorry about that. I think my cat is magic.”

Lexa snorts and lets the aforementioned cat down so she can head for the kitchen. “It’s just as well, I wanted to talk to you about last night.”

That was not the best way to phrase it, Lexa sees Clarke’s face fall. “It’s too weird for you, okay, I can understand that--”

“ _No_. That’s actually not what I wanted to say, Clarke.” She takes a deep breath, trying to put her thoughts into order. “It’s been two years since I was in love with someone.  She left me, and I thought the pain would destroy me. You tell yourself you’re never going to allow yourself to be that vulnerable again.”

Clarke nods. “I’ve been there a few times. So, what makes this any different?”

That’s the million dollar question, isn’t it? The one Lexa had spent hours asking herself last night after she’d showered all that paint off her back. “Loneliness is its own kind of death, I’ve found. I’ve always been a person who led with her head and not her heart, Clarke. Maybe I want to be happy again.”  This is Lexa’s most earnest conclusion. She lets the confession hang out there, anxiously awaiting Clarke’s reception.

“So, does that mean I can ask you out on a date this weekend?” Clarke drawls, injecting a bit of levity into the conversation. Lexa breathes a sigh of relief.

“Yes, you can. And you can paint more flowers onto my skin.”

“And kiss you?”

Lexa purses her lips to keep from grinning. “Yes, that too. Preferably now.” Clarke mirrors her expression and steps closer, curling her arm around Lexa’s back. For her part, Lexa brushes the length of Clarke’s hair off her shoulder so she can hold Clarke nearer. Clarke kisses her then, and Lexa thinks of yarrow, growing out in the wild, and imagines it staunching the flow of blood from her broken heart.  But to her Clarke is larkspur, with dark blue blossoms so vibrant they linger behind your eyelids even after you've closed them.

 

* * *

 

 **Larkspur (consolida):**   _lightness_

 

* * *

 

 


End file.
